(A number of the old ones who are not doing well hold me to blame, I'm sure, for having helped bring them to ruin.) Invariably in these disagreements with his salesmen, I am right and they are wrong. I am patient, practical, rational, while they are emotional and insistent. It is easy for me to be practical and rational in these situations because I am not in the least bit endangered by the business problems that threatenthem.
Kagle often comments jokingly to Arthur Baron and other important people, sometimes even in my presence, that I would be much better in Green's job than Green is; Kagle does this with a gleam of mischief if I am there, because I have begged him not to. I am not certain if Kagle really believes I would be better than Green or is merely making an amiable gesture that he thinks will honor me and get back to Green to irritate and concern him. Because Andy Kagle is good to me and doesn't scare me any longer, I despise him a little bit too.
I try my best to conceal it (although I am often surprised to discover a harder edge to my sarcasms and admonitions than I intended. There is something cankered and terrifying inside me that wishes to burst out and demolish him, lame and imperfect as he is). I try my best to help and protect him in just about every way I can. I am the one who even offers regularly to carry censures and instructions from him to Johnny Brown that he shrinks from delivering himself, although I will never risk anything with Brown after lunch if I can possibly avoid it. Along with everyone else who knows Brown, I endeavor to steer clear of him after lunch (unless I need him on my side in an argument with someone else), when he is apt to be red-eyed and irritable with drink and in a contrary, bellicose mood. Brown in a bad temper with whiskey working inside him always gives the clear impression that he is eager for a fist fight. And there is no doubt that with his deep chest, sturdy shoulders, and thick, powerful hands, he can handle himself in one. And there is also no doubt that Brown is usually right.
The current (and recurrent) antagonism between Kagle and Brown is over call reports again. The salesmen are reluctant to fill out these small printed pink, blue, and white forms (pink for prospects, blue for active, and white for formerly active; that is, accounts that have lapsed and are therefore prospects again, though not necessarily lively ones) describing with some hope and detail the sales calls they have made (or allege they have made). The salesmen are reluctant to come to grips with any kind of paperwork more elaborate than writing out order forms; they especially hate to fill out their expense account reports and fall weeks, sometimes months, behind. The salesmen know beforehand that most of the information they will have to supply in their call reports will be false. Brown maintains that call reports are a waste of everybody's time, and he is reluctant to compel the salesmen to fill them out. Kagle is afraid of Brown, and he is reluctant to compel Brown to compel the salesmen to fill them out.
But Arthur Baron wants the call reports. Arthur Baron has no other way of keeping familiar with what the salesmen are up to (or say they are) and a no more reliable source of knowledge on which to base his own decisions and reports, even though he is certainly aware that most of the knowledge on which he bases his decisions and prepares his own reports is composed of lies.
I try to keep out of it and expel an air of innocence and sympathetic understanding to all concerned. I would rather sit here in my office writing, doodling, flirting on the telephone with Jane, or talking to a good girl named Penny I've known a long time, or classifying people in the company and constructing my Happiness Charts, than get mixed up in this one. I don't care about the call reports and don't have to. The matter is trivial; yet, it seems to be one of those trivial matters that might destroy a person or two, and I don't see how I can gain favor with one person in this situation without losing favor with another. So, prudently, I contrive to keep as far away from it as I can, although Iwillmanage to mention every now and then to a salesman I happen to be with on some other business that Kagle, Brown, or Arthur Baron has been asking about his call reports and that it is extremely urgent they be handed in as soon as possible for prompt study and evaluation. (I don't manage to mention — and never would — that I think they're a waste of everybody's time but mine.)
In this and other small ways I do what I can to be of help to Kagle (and Brown) (and Arthur Baron). I give him advice and I bring him gossip and news and portents from other parts of the company that I think will be of value or concern to him.
"What do you hear?" he wants to know.
"About what?"
"You know."
"What do you mean?"
"Jesus Christ," he complains, "you used to be truthful with me. Now I can't even trust you, either."
"What are you talking about?"
"I hear that I'm out and Brown's in, and that you probably know all about it. I was tipped off in Denver."
"You're full of shit."
"I like your honesty."
"I like yours."
Kagle grins mechanically, sardonically, and moves with his slight limp across the carpet of his office to close the door. I smile back at him and settle smugly into his brown leather armchair. I always feel very secure and very superior when I'm sitting inside someone's office with the door closed and other people, perhaps Kagle or Green or Brown, are doing all the worrying on the outside about what's going on inside. Kagle has a large, lush corner office in which he seems out of place. He looks nervous and tries to smile as he comes back and sits down behind his desk.
"Seriously, you hear everything," he says to me. "Haven't you heard anything?"
"About what?"
"About me."
"No."
"The grapevine says I'm finished. They're going to listen to Green and Horace White and get rid of me. Brown's got the job."
"Who told you that?"
"I can't name names. But I was tipped off by people in Denver who passed it along to me in strictest confidence. It's true. You can take my word for it."
"You're full of shit again."
"No, I'm not."
"There's nobody in our Denver office who would know something like that or tip you off about it if they did."
"Only about the Denver part. The rest is true."
"You tell terrible lies," I say. "You tell the worst lies of anybody in the whole business. I don't see how you ever made it as a salesman."
Kagle grins for an instant to acknowledge my humor and then turns glum again.
"Brown tells you things," he says.
"Hasn't he given any hints?"
"No." I shake my head. (Everybody seems to think I know everything. "You know everything," Brown said to me. "What's going on?" "I didn't even know there was anything going on," I answered. Jane asked: "What's going on? Are they really getting rid of the whole Art Department?" "I wouldn'tletthem get rid of you, honey," I answered. "Even if I had to pay your salary myself.")
I shake my head again. "And it's probably not true. They'd never put Brown in. He fights with everybody."
"Then youhaveheard something," Kagle exclaims.
"No, I haven't."
"Who would they put in?"
"Nobody. Andy, why don't you stop all this horseshit and buckle down to your job if you're so really worried? If you're really so worried, why don't you start doing the things you're supposed to do?"
"What am I supposed to do?"
"The things you're supposed to do. Stop trying to be such a good guy to all the people who work for you. You ain't succeeding, and nobody wants you to be. You're a member of management now. Your sales force is your enemy, not your buddy, and you're supposed to be theirs and drive them like slaves. Brown is right."
"I don't like Brown."
"He knows his business. Make Ed Phelps retire."
"No."
"That's what Horace White wants you to do."
"Phelps is an old man now. He wants to stay."
"That's why you have to force him out."
"His son was divorced last year. His daughter-in-law just took his granddaughter away to Seattle. He might never see the little girl again."
"That's all very sad."
"How much does it cost the company to keep him on, even if he doesn't do anything?"
"Very little."
"Then why should I make him retire?"
(Kagle is right, here, and I like him enormously for his determination to let Phelps stay. Phelps is old and will soon be dead, anyway, or too sick to continue.)
"Because he's past the official retirement age. And Horace White wants you to."
"I don't like Horace White," Kagle observes softly, irrelevantly. "And he doesn't like me."
"He knows his business also," I point out.
"How can I tell it to Ed Phelps?" Kagle wants to know. "What could I say to him? Will you do it for me? It's not so easy, is it?"
"Get Brown to do it," I suggest.
"No."
"It's part ofyourjob, not mine."
"But it's not so easy, is it?"
"That's why they pay you so much."
"I don't get so much," he digresses almost automatically, "what with taxes and all."
"Yes, you do. And stop traveling all the time. Nobody likes that. What the hell were you doing in Denver all this week when there's nothing going on there and you're supposed to be here organizing the next convention and working on your sales projections?"
"I've got Ed Phelps working on the convention."
"A lot he'll do."
"And my sales projections are always wrong."
"So what? At least they're done."
"What else?"
"Play more golf. Talk to Red Parker and buy a blue blazer. Buy better suits. Wear a jacket in the office and keep your shirt collar buttoned and your necktie up tight around your neck where it belongs. Jesus, look at you right now. You're supposed to be a distinguished white-collar executive."
"Don't take the name of the Lord in vain," he jokes.
"Don't you."
"I've got a good sales record," he argues.
"Have you got a good sports jacket," I demand.
"Jesus Christ, what does a good sports jacket matter?"
"More than your good sales record. Nobody wears jackets with round leather patches on the elbows to the office, unless it's on a weekend. Get black shoes for your blue and gray suits. And stop driving into the city in your station wagon."
"Okay," he gives in with a gloomy, chastised smile and exhales a long, low whistle of mock surprise and resignation. "You win." He gets up slowly and moves toward the coat rack in the corner of his office for his jacket. "I promise. I'll get a blue blazer."
It will be too big — I can see it in advance — and hang over his shoulders and sag sloppily around his chest, and he will probably get his worsted blue blazer just about the time the rest of us have switched to mohair or shantung or back to madras, plaids, and seersucker. It is already too late for him, I suspect; I suspect it is no longer in his power (if it ever was in his power) to change himself to everyone's satisfaction. For the moment, though (while I am still with him), he makes an effort: he buttons his shirt collar, and slides tight to his neck the knot of his tie, and puts on his jacket. It is a terrible jacket of coarse, imitation tweed, with oval suede patches at the elbows.
"Better?" he wants to know.
"Not much."
"I'll throw out these brown shoes."
"That will help."
"How's Green treating you these days?" he asks casually.
"Pretty good," I reply. "Why?"
"If you were in my department," he offers with a cagey, more confident air, and the beginnings of a mischievous smile, "I would let you make as many speeches as you want to at the next convention. The salesmen are always very interested in the work you're doing for them and what you have to say."
"So long," I answer. "I'll see you around."
We both laugh, because we each know what the other wants and where the fears and sore spots are. Kagle knows I want to keep my job and be allowed to make a speech at the next company convention. (God dammit — it would be an honor and an act of recognition, even if it is only three minutes, and I've earned it and I want it, and that's all!) And I know that Kagle wants my help in defending himself against Green (and Brown) (and Black) (and White) (and Arthur Baron, as well).
"You'll let me know if you do hear anything, won't you?" he asks, as we walk to the door.
"Of course I will," I assure him.
"But don't ask questions," he cautions with a dark, moody snicker. "You might give them the idea."
We laugh.
And we are both still chuckling when Kagle opens the door of his office and we find my secretary outside talking to his secretary.
"Oh, Mr. Slocum," she sings out cheerily, because that is her way, and I wish I were rid of her. "Mr. Baron wants to see you right away."
Kagle pulls me to the side. "What does he want?" he asks with alarm.
"How should I know?"
"Go see him."
"What did you think I was going to do?"
"And come and tell me if he says anything about getting rid of me."
"Sure."
"You will, won't you?"
"Of course I will. For Christ sakes, Andy, can't you trust me?"
"Where areyougoing?" Green wants to know, as I pass him in the corridor on my way to Arthur Baron's office.
"Arthur Baron wants to see me."
Green skids to a stop with a horrified glare; and it's all I can do not to laugh in his face.